He left her; and his little bark, under press of sail, sped merrily through the waves. She stood to watch--her heart warmed by the recollection of his fervent affection--his attentive kindness. He had ever been brave and generous; but now he had become so sympathizing and gentle, that she hoped that the time was not far off when moral courage would spring from that personal hardihood which is at once so glorious and so fearful. "God shield you, my father!" she thought, "God preserve you, my more than father, for happier thoughts and better days! For the full enjoyment of, and control over, those splendid qualities with which Nature has gifted you!" Such was the tenour of her thoughts. Enthusiasm mingled with fond solicitude--and thus she continued her anxious watchings. By every opportunity she received brief letters, breathing affection, yet containing no word of self. Sometimes a phrase occurred directing her what to do if anything fatal occurred to him, which startled and pained her; but there was nothing else that spoke of death--nor any allusion to his distaste for life. Autumn was far advanced--the sounds of war were somewhat lulled; and, except in small skirmishing parties, that met and fought under cover of the ravines and woods, all was quiet. Elizabeth felt less fearful than usual. She wrote to ask when Falkner would again visit her; and he, in reply, promised so to do immediately after a meditated attack on a small fortress, the carrying of which was of the first import to the safe quartering of his little troop during the winter. She read this with delight--she solaced herself with the prospect of a speedier and longer visit than usual; with childish thoughtlessness she forgot that the attack on the town was a work of war, and might bring with it the fatal results of mortal struggle. A few days after, a small, ill-looking letter was put into her hands--it was written in Romaic, and the meaning of its illegible ciphers could only be guessed at by a Greek. It was from Vasili--to tell her, in a few words, that Falkner was lying in a small village, not far from the seacoast, opposite Zante. It mentioned that he had been long suffering from a Greek fever; and having been badly wounded in the late attack, the combined effects of wound and malady left little hopes of recovery; while the fatal moment was hastened by the absence of all medical assistance--the miserable state of the village where he was lying--and the bad air of the country around.